The Power of Touch
by Raxicoricofallapatorious
Summary: Sherlock is not one for physical contact. He keeps to himself, keeps his emotions in check. But there is one exception. Always one. John.


As much as Sherlock loathes touching people, John always seems to be the exception. Where he would normally avoid the brushing of fingers when being passed a folder or his phone or even a cuppa, Sherlock seemed to linger on those moments when alone or in his mind palace. Even he realized the anomaly of it all. It was an internal mystery that he was incapable of solving on his own. But for all these little touches, there was one area Sherlock avoided like the plague.

One's heart carries not only physical necessity, but, apparently, an emotional one as well. Every second the brain sends electric impulses all throughout the body, some conscious like the moving of an arm or the tapping of a finger, others involuntary like breathing or blinking… or one's heart beating. It also has a heavier hand in the idiosyncrasies of the body: uncontrollable twitches, increased endorphins and other chemicals, accelerated pulse…

However nothing is without cause. Emotions are generally the core of all actions or reactions. They can weaken the mind and alter one's perception and even go so far as to skew a memory. They are a weakness, emotions, and Sherlock had known it all his life. Had been told it all his life. Had believed it all his life.

Until John, that is…

With John came emotions. Laughter, arguments, sharp words and quick tongues, small quips and shared looks… Harsh accusations and cold shoulders. So many times Sherlock lashed out for many different reasons, fear of the unknown or the itch for another smoke or even just to see what would happen, and so many times John would leave. "For some air", he would always say, but each time Sherlock couldn't help but worry he wouldn't come back. And yet John did return without fail every time. And every time Sherlock felt several pounds lighter at the sight of his tense back or the sound of his heavy footsteps. John's return bore as much importance as Mrs. Hudson's continuous stay at Baker Street.

There was one instance where John had to go away for a week on conference. Almost every moment, Sherlock was moving, thinking, fretting, dreading. What if John found some woman to love and marry and move in with and away from Sherlock? What if John returns after a week of being away and realizes he has no reason to stay in the first place? What if something happens to John while he's gone and falls ill or dies? What if, what if, what if. When John returned, and he did, Sherlock fell asleep on the couch and remained there for the next day and a half, getting the first proper rest he'd had all week, and woke every time he heard John moving about. Then when Sherlock saw it was just John milling about and _existing_ , he would relax and sleep again. John was there.

Even in his darkest moment, feeling the aftereffects of a hallucinogenic drug that both heightened his emotions and broke down his walls, when Sherlock snapped and literally drove John out of the pub, away from him, John forgave him. John came back.

Sherlock is so unsure when it began, these emotions. He knew they were always there, but they were locked away. But something happened when John came to live at Baker Street. Something was opened and Sherlock was having a hell of a time figuring out what it was, what it meant, or what to do about it. Should they talk? They never talk. Honestly it was no matter. Sherlock had kept things under control before. He'd dug a deep hole and pushed it in and buried it. It was not unusual. So he did. Kept it all under wraps. Never spoke on it, never thought of it, and tried not to dwell on it.

But some things were out of Sherlock's control. Some things would not remained buried. There were times, more than a few, when Sherlock would retreat into his mind palace in a search for answers or puzzles or peace, and would find himself in _his_ room. The deep, dark hole that Sherlock would shove those emotions down into always led to John's room. In that room, that detailed replica of Baker Street that always had a warm, glowing fire and their armchairs and John, always John.

Normally it was simple domestic bliss. Nothing more than the two of them sitting and enjoying a cuppa or watching crap telly. A lot of times Sherlock would retreat to his mind palace to relax and rest without sleeping. Sometimes in those moments of peace those feelings would bubble up and take form. They would appear in longer looks and more open smiles and lingering touches. Sometimes in more intimate ways than just a hand on the shoulder. Hot breath and warm lips and burning cheeks would wake Sherlock, his chest heaving and John's gently smiling face remaining behind his eyelids.

And yet Sherlock would push these infernal feelings down. He kept digging and re-digging that hole. He kept watching John nap and looking at empty slides so he would be "busy" and John would bring him perfectly made tea and a small snack. He kept letting fingertips linger and arms brush. He kept just glancing at lips and leaving space between them despite the narrow hallways and dangerous situations and racing pulses that have everything to do with the case and the chase and not Sherlock.

So yes, Sherlock would enjoy the contact. He would let their hands touch and their eyes meet and their arms brush. He would have John around and fret when he wasn't and take any and all sort of caring John would provide. And that would be enough.

But Sherlock would never do one thing. He would shout and yell and curse at the man, but Sherlock would never take John's pulse. Not when it was just them in those domestic moments. Not when Sherlock sat back in his leather chair while John relaxed in his own red one. Not when John handed Sherlock his tea or his coffee or his box of nicotine patches and their fingers brushed. Not when the two of them were practically toe to toe, nose to nose, and breathing each other's air without touching. Not when Sherlock felt like his own heart was about to burst from his chest. Definitely not then.

Because nothing would kill those feelings, _nothing_ would send this new high crashing down, like expecting reciprocation, expecting an elevated pulse to match those dilated pupils that surely must be a trick of the light, and finding nothing.

 **(A/N: Again, not dead. Life happens and it's a shit excuse, but here I am saying the same things again like a broken record. You see, I have a terrible problem. I love to write and I love to read. I love the happy bits and the exciting bits, but I absolutely** _ **adore**_ **the angsty, painful moments that leave you gasping for breath and aching inside from nothing more than a dark look or an ignored sentiment or TWO IDIOT MEN WHO DON'T TALK ABOUT ANYTHING! And I love love looooooove writing these moments too. But sometimes I get impatient. And that's what this is: me wanting to cause pain and being unwilling to write through the filler bits and the lead ins in the stories I've already got running. So I write this little drabble of a one-shot that barely breaks a thousand words.**

 **So yeah, to sum up, I'm lazy, I like emotional turmoil, and I love watching you cry [under certain circumstances]. I'm sorry. I hope you enjoyed this. I'm sorry. I'm working on the next chapter of Man's Character, I promise.)**


End file.
